


Goodnight, Stranger

by fionasank



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fionasank/pseuds/fionasank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas has been avoiding Dean for weeks, but something keeps drawing them back to each other. Maybe it's the fact that they're falling in love. (Cas's POV, set just after 8x17. Some spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> _Go ahead, go ahead_
> 
> _Lose our shirts in the fire tonight_
> 
> _What makes you think I'm enjoying being left_
> 
> _To the flood?_
> 
> _We got another thing coming undone_
> 
> _And it's taking us over_
> 
> _And it's taking forever._
> 
> _\- The National, Runaway._

  
_"Angels are watching over you."_ That's what Dean's mother used to say to him, isn't it? I remember overhearing him talk to Sam about it before. I don't think she meant it this literally. She wasn't a psychic.

Dean is sleeping. I stand at the foot of his bed. He doesn't know I'm here, of course. That would be unwise; I suspect he has questions I can't – shouldn't – answer. I remember everything now, how many times I was made to kill him. It was five-hundred and twenty-one times before I could do it without throwing up, crying, or hesitating to the point where he killed me. It was Dean. I know him completely, ever since I dragged him and his battered soul from Hell. It felt every kind of wrong to be destroying what I felt was a part of me.

The lights are off, but I can see. Dean is lying on his front, limbs sticking out and hanging off the bed slightly. He's shirtless, and from here I can faintly see the handprint I left on his upper arm. That wasn't just a simple accident, nor did I endeavour to do it. To raise Dean successfully, I was forced to share part of my Grace, my very essence, with him. Only then could he pass through the gates of Hell untouched. Such an encounter leaves a mark, and a bond. No matter how many times I betray Dean, he will always forgive me. He doesn't have a choice.

Of course, I will avidly avoid betraying him. Especially now, since I suspect I love him.

Meg told me I should read more. I went to the "library" and asked them if I could have a book. The physically attractive woman laughed, said I was funny, and touched my shoulder. I didn't flinch away. I will do that from now on.

The woman gave me a recommendation and said it was her favourite book. It's called, _The Notebook_ , by Nicholas Sparks. It's not a notebook. I read it briefly and told the woman I didn't fully understand what they meant by the concept of being "in love". She smiled and told me that it's when a person fills your whole world, when you constantly feel like there is a cord connecting the two of you and you feel it pull the further they are from you, when you want all of your days to be like the ones when you're with them because everything is just, simply, a lot better in their company.

Well, to quote directly, she said, "It's when you really really like someone, to the point where it could be classed as obsession." But I explained what I thought it meant, and she agreed, so this is my definition.

I immediately thought of Dean. When I'm not near him, I'm... uncomfortable. Everything is slightly shifted, as in watching a television show where the audio is out of synchronisation with the video. I would give my life for Dean. I would give a lot more for Dean. I would do anything for Dean. Everything I think about seems to be centred around him: I decide which town to visit next depending on where Dean is; I decide which witnesses to kill and which to spare depending on how similar their eyes are to Dean's; when creating an alias, I anagram the words "Dean Winchester" (if this doesn't provide a suitable name, I add on extra words, such as "Impala", "family", "pie", "hunter", and "mine". The latter is a last resort.).

Dean turns over in his sleep. I hide myself briefly as his eyes flit instinctively over the room, the result of a hunter's childhood. Poor Dean, rich in ways he tries so hard not to take for granted. I call to mind the memory of my hand on his face, as he looked up into my eyes with such trust and betrayal. I'm still trying to figure out how he could feel both of those things at the same time.

Naomi no longer has power over me, as far as I see. I am myself again. Maybe this time I'll stay for a little while. Things keep getting in the way of my plans, namely that I keep dying. It passes like an instant for me, the space between dying and being brought back to life, but for Dean (and Sam and) it's months. When I return, I'm different. Or, in my view, he's different.

I lean over Dean, touching my fingers to his forehead. I deepen his sleep so he won't wake up for at least another two hours. Then I place my hand on the side of his face and fix the cut on his left forearm and the sprained wrist he's gained since we last met.

"Dean," I whisper quietly, not loud enough for human voices to hear. He lets out a small snore, leading me to laugh softly. I should have guessed that Dean would respond to my stimuli.

At first, I thought that the attachment I felt to this man was wholly due to our journey from perdition. But that would simply lead to a bond, no feelings. If it were only a bond, I wouldn't look into his eyes as if they were my own, or long to simply hold his hand, or not wake him up as I stand over his bed. He's a very handsome man, I've noticed. Even more so as he sleeps. The lines drawn by the misfortune of his life retreat into his dreams, and his face is left without burden.

I want to wake him.

I want to talk to him and ask him whether he's been in love before.

I suspect he'll say no.

But then I draw to mind Lisa, the woman he stayed with for a year before asking me to wipe her memory of him for her safety. He knew he was being a little selfish, but he knew he was allowed to be. I think that loving someone means doing what you know they'd do to you, instead of what they'd want for themselves. Those are two different things. For example, I want to let Dean sleep. Dean wants to wake up and shout at me. I am in love with Dean.

I'm standing in his bedroom, and that makes me happy, because Dean's never had a bedroom before, and he can love it without the fear that it will be sent to Hell. I look over his bedside table, on which lies _Cat's Cradle_ , by Kurt Vonnegut, along with a picture of his parents and a notebook. I pick up the notebook and read the first page.

TO BUY:

*5 CAT SKULLS

*BONES OF AN INFANT no sammy. no.

*BONES OF AN INFANT DEAN WE NEED THEM

*a knife that kills humans for good

*A SPELL THAT DESTROYS ALL PIE

*a hex bag that repels snotty giant little brothers with flappy hair

*ONE OF THE MANY STRIPPERS THAT HAS TURNED DEAN DOWN

*hey chastity was pissed at cas / busy stripping that wasn't me

*A BOOK TELLING DEAN HOW BULLET POINTS WORK

*a can of whoopass for sam wait forgot I already have one

*bitch

*JERK

The notes deteriorate down the page, ending in a crude drawing of something I think is an elephant, with the caption, _"Samantha"._

I flip quickly through the rest of the notebook. I find scribbled numbers, practise demon traps, and a home remedy for how to fix a dislocated shoulder in a moving car. When I reach the last page, however, I can tell that something is hidden inside the cover, because that's what I would do.

As carefully as I can, I extract the paper from inside the binding. I sit at Dean's desk and smooth the paper out in front of me. I don't believe it. Dean has drawn a picture of me. But—

He has drawn a picture of me from three thousand years ago.

I recognise my old vessel immediately. Julius was an honest man, if the town drunk. So when I came to him in the night and told him I was an angel, he didn't question it. He said, "I'll do anything! Don't hurt me!" I took that as an invitation to control his body for the next two hundred years.

"Oh, Dean," I whisper again. I turn to look at him, sleeping silently, his heartbeat slightly raised.

"Cas," he replies.

I freeze. His voice sounds like a moan almost, of longing. He misses me. It's the bond talking. I turn back to the picture, turn it over. My vessel from five thousand years ago looks back at me. The pencil lines are thin, light, delicate. Dean has surprisingly careful fingers.

I can't help but breathe "Dean" one more time as I exhale. It is met by a louder, "Cas."

Immediately I am by his side. His eyes dart from side to side under his eyelids, and his heartbeat is getting faster. He is sweating ever so slightly.

I frown. I put him unconscious for two hours. He shouldn't be responding this way.

Dean's skin is firm and tight over his muscles. It looks very soft. I think I would like to touch it, but I don't test that theory. If there is one thing I've learned from watching Dean (and Sam), it's that embraces are saved for before battles and after battles. Maybe not even then.

My need for Dean has grown since my isolation from Heaven. Naomi must have been blocking it somehow, filling my head with missions and statistics to distract me. But at the end, she turned my need into the need for revenge, for blood. She didn't know that that can't be done. She didn't know that nothing distresses me more than seeing Dean hurt. Seeing him covered in his blood – seeing _myself_ covered in his blood brought me back. The moment the connection was broken was the moment my love for Dean overcame the walls in my mind.

I can never tell him this. But I probably will as soon as he looks at me like he does.

It's unfortunate to think about all the simple things I cannot do with Dean. I cannot hold him when he's sad. I cannot cook for him, although I doubt I would be able to do that anyway. I cannot give him the dark brown overcoat I found that matches mine. I cannot smooth his hair down or consentingly touch his face. It's times like this when I wish I could dream.

I haven't visited Dean's dreams in while. Sometimes he remembers me being there, even if I'm only standing under the shade of a tree in the background, taking mental photographs. If I went there now, he wouldn't let me leave, and I don't think I'd want to. Everything about Dean is worth the struggle it causes.

I'm getting ahead of myself, acting like this, as if Dean is my whole world. I still have my mission to obtain the other half of the demon tablet. I still have to protect the angel tablet. But I gravitate towards him. He is my anchor to humanity.

A few months ago, when I was still being controlled by Naomi, Dean and I had a private conversation about the true nature of angels.

"Cas..." he'd said, sidling over to me. "So, could you become human if you wanted to?"

I'd frowned. "Define human."

"Well, you know. DNA. Junk in the trunk. No special exorcism mojo." He stood surprisingly still, surviving on seven coffees and twenty-one minutes of sleep. I keep having to stop myself from trying to fix him. I'm afraid I'll accidentally change one of the things I love about him, when really all I want to do is make him safe.

Don't tell him, don't tell him. To keep him safe you need to be close to him. To be close to him, don't tell him. Don't tell him, don't tell him. Don't.

"Why would I want to?" I had asked, my head tipping slightly to the side, out of habit.

He bridled a little. "I wasn't asking that. Just, _can_ you. Not _would_ you."

I thought about it for a second. "Well, Dean, I can't change how I'm made anymore than you can change into some form of animal. Angels are only similar to humans in that we take you as vessels. But, I suppose, if all my powers were to drain away, such as when I was in the company of the Mother of All, I would be as good as human." I paused, studying the intricacies of his face, trying to figure out the emotions. "Does that satisfy you?"

He didn't answer. Sam came in. Sam always comes in when Dean and I are beginning to get somewhere. In the television show _Doctor Sexy M.D._ , they refer to it as 'cock-blocking'. I don't understand. There isn't any poultry around.

Maybe I should kill myself.

No. I can't leave Dean. I promised not to hurt him.

He is facing upwards on the bed now, his features slipping slightly to the sides of his face as gravity tugs on it. I place my hand so lightly on his chest that no human should be able to feel it. "Cas," he breathes. I smile, in spite of myself.

Less than a foot from my hand is the place where, years ago, I gripped him as tight as I was able. I can't help it. I can't. There's a force of will, my will, _his_ will, pulling my hand towards the old scar. My fingers align with the marks. And that's when Dean's eyes open.

He sees a figure standing over him in the darkness, and doesn't reach for his gun. He knows it's me.

"Cas! What the Hell..." He looks down at my hand on his arm. There's no anger painted in the masterpiece of his face. Only curiosity, and a drowsy, ill-informed fondness. I remove my hand, and the effects of the connection wear off. Dean looks up at me, glaring a little now. "Where the Hell have you been?"

"Dean–" I start to say, before I'm interrupted.

"I prayed to you, man! We looked for you! You can't just... _leave_ like that! I have been worrying my ass off about you, about this whole situation, about what the Hell this Naomi bitch is gonna do next, and you just... disappear? What's so _important_ that you can just leave like that?"

I blink back tears. Dean is the only one who can make me feel like this.

"Dean, please. I thought it was best to keep myself at a distance from you for a while. In case there were any left-over orders in my head. Naomi made me kill you. I don't want to do that."

He glances at his upper arm. His face softens a fraction. It's almost imperceptible. He's thinking that I was trying to protect him, that that's still bullshit and I need a real excuse, but he appreciates it, but he's missed me –

"Bullshit. You don't think I can defend myself against a dorky angel?" He starts to move, pulling back his covers to sit on the side of the bed. I retreat a few steps to give him his "personal space".

"Dean, you don't understand. They... I..." I can't finish. I can't tell him that they made me kill him a thousand times. I don't want him to know that I did it. I don't want to tell him how much it hurts me. I want to tell him.

"Cas?" He's noticed something is on my mind. He moves so he's sitting right up at the headboard of the bed. I sit at the foot.

"Dean, I don't want to be under her control anymore. I don't want to be under anyone's control. I don't want to be haunted by Sam's memories of Hell, or possessed by souls, or Leviathans. I just want to be myself, for a little while."

His brow creases. This happens frequently. "Why can't you be yourself here? With us? With me?"

He understands that he means a lot more to me than Sam does. I think he rather enjoys the notion.

"Dean, I'm just trying to keep you safe." I know it's futile to try and conceal the pain in my eyes. Dean sees it. He thinks about reaching out to me. His hand twitches, but he simply runs it through his hair, letting out a jagged breath.

He looks me dead in the eye, so intense that I can't even blink. "Where've you been, Cas?" he says quietly. There is no accusing tone in his voice. "What have you been doing?"

I look down at my hands.

"Hey, look at me. Cas." I oblige. "We're on your side. I'm always on your side." He speaks with such emotion that I smile minutely as I think that his loyalty is not as much the bond, as the man.

"I've been trying to find a suitable hiding place for the angel tablet," I tell him. This isn't a lie. "I can't carry it around with me for eternity. I'd most certainly be killed within the first few centuries." Dean raises his eyebrows, as he always does when I mention my age, out of curiosity more than judgement or repulsion.

"Cas, why do you have to protect that damn thing? Why can't we get it to Kevin? That's as good a hiding place as any. No one's going near Garth's safe house. Hell, no one's going near _Garth_."

No no no I can't tell him. I look him in the eye. I lose myself.

Oh, Father, forgive me.

"The demon tablet contains instructions depicting how to close the gates of Hell permanently. No demons in or out. Most likely, it also says how to wipe out the entire demon population." I take a deep breath. I don't particularly _need_ to breathe; it's a soothing habit.

"You think we'd close the gates of Heaven," Dean says, finishing my thought as it dawns on him.

"Dean, I'd be stuck on one side. I'd either have to leave my home, or Heaven, behind."

He looks at me, just looks at me. "Cas, if Naomi's part of something bigger, we might need to." I see my sorrow mirrored in his eyes. "People might die."

No no no, Castiel, hold your damn tongue.

"Dean, when you die, you'll go to Heaven. That much has been proved already. If I'm stuck on Earth... if I'm _not_ on Earth..." I don't look at him, instead focusing my gaze on the pictures on the desk.

"Cas." He leans forward, slightly reducing the space in between us. "Why are you here?"

I aggressively avoid his eye. My emotions are crashing out of me, and I am unable to filter them. If I looked at Dean now he'd know everything.

"I wanted to... check up on you."

"Cas, I don't need – hey, did you fix my wrist?!" He flexes his left wrist and glares at me in my peripheral.

"I know you don't need it. I needed it. I was worrying. It was getting in the way."

Dean is silent for a moment as he prioritises his questions. But they're all so trivial. _Why are you here at night? When are you coming back? Have you seen Kevin?_ Nothing of import. The only thing that matters is that I am here with Dean, and Dean is alright.

He starts to ask another question, so I tell him that I will answer his queries soon, but for now I would like to sit quietly in his company, if I may. He stops talking immediately.

The bed is comfortable. I sink rather low into it, as does Dean. Maybe the mattress is faulty. Though, I remember the days when a manger of hay was a big deal.

Dean moves slightly closer to me and reaches out, putting a hand on my right shoulder as we sit side by side. His grip is firm and steady, long fingers splayed, reminding me that he's there. I want to return the embrace, I want to touch him in return, but how can I? Nothing the pizza man taught me is relevant in this situation.

I move myself slightly over towards him, as he did. Our bodies are roughly 13.63 inches from each other. The air is still.

I wonder if maybe he loves me too.

No, no. Don't think about that.

What's good about me? What am I but another person willing to bleed for the Winchesters? How many have cared and died for them? Why should I be any different?

There will come a day when Dean is dead and Sam is dead and they're all dead and I'm alone and I'll be damned if I can't spend forever in Heaven with him.

I consider the action of sexual intercourse. I've never done it before. _The Notebook_ made it sound enjoyable, as did the pizza man and his female companion, as did Meg's proposal about "moving furniture around". For Dean, sex would be inevitable in a relationship. I don't know if I can give him what he wants.

He doesn't love me.

He doesn't love me.

I am in love with Dean.

I realise that I am crying only after Dean has moved closer, so we are 1.95 inches apart, and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, gripping my arm tightly. He hasn't said anything since I asked him not to. I want to kiss him.

The tells in my eyes must have worn off in the twenty minutes silence, so I can turn to look at Dean, who was looking at me. Our faces are 10.73 inches apart. He looks in my eyes and waits for me to speak. I simply lean forwards and rest my head on his shoulder, and he rests his head on top of mine, while beginning to rub his hand soothingly across my back.

I feel useless. Dean has been through more than I have. Recently I beat him half to death. But here I am, being the victim. It's not right.

However, Dean has always been selfless. He's always been one to solve others' problems over his. This act of kindness benefits him as much as it does me.

So I stay.

I bring my arm up to wrap around his back, and he leans into it, surrounding more of my body with his. How often does he embrace Sam in this way? Does he?

My mind is surprisingly blank. I can hear Dean's heartbeat so loudly from here. I would like to thank Dean's heart for everything it's done for him. Well, and for me.

Half an hour later, I sense that Dean has fallen asleep. His breathing has become slow and steady, in a race to the morning. He is leaning heavily against me as I support more of his body weight than before. He has his serene, raw face back.

An hour later, I slowly extract myself from him, and lay him back on the bed. I pull the covers up to his chin. My desires are bouncing against the cage walls of my thoughts, dying to be brought into reality.

I kiss Dean on the lips and disappear before he can wake.


	2. Chapter 2

> _
> 
> I have hours, only lonely
> 
> My love is vengeance
> 
> That's never free
> 
> No one knows what it's like
> 
> To feel these feelings
> 
> Like I do
> 
> And I blame you
> 
> \- The Who, Behind Blue Eyes
> 
> _

They say that the most beautiful things are the rarest. That's certainly true with one thing: Dean's laugh. I can only call to mind four times I've heard it.

I remember when he took me to that den of iniquity to try and get me to lose my virginity. I hadn't wanted to. I'd become nervous. I had sabotaged myself. Dean thought it was funny and he let out that astounding laugh and he stopped the matter, and we'd spent the rest of the night talking about the plan, getting it laid out perfectly to better our chances of surviving against Raphael.

At the end of the night, after Dean had had four beers and I'd had forty, he lay on the couch, on the cusp of sleep's grasp, and I sat quietly in the corner. Then a question struck me.

"Dean," I said.

"What?"

I hesitated.

"What, Cas?"

"When Sam died, he went to Heaven. When you sold your soul to bring him back, you went to Hell. Why would you rather spend a few years with him on Earth rather than an eternity in Heaven?"

He sat up a little, trying to think clearly to answer my question. "Well, I didn't really know about Heaven then, you know? I didn't know about all this angel crap. And, Cas, I'm not trying to disrespect your family or your hometown or anything, but it's not real. I mean, it exists, but it just... it's not the same."

I couldn't argue with him. Everything here on Earth is more pronounced, more vivid, especially the pain. But it's worth it. I love it here.

"Even in Hell," he continued, words becoming less slurred as memories sharpen his senses, "the only thought that kept me going was that it wasn't as real as Sammy, living his life up there, because of me."

I smiled a little internally. I decided to let him sleep. Quietly I compiled a list of all my regrets in my head, seeing as I would die the next day. One of them was that I didn't pull Dean out of Hell a month earlier, keeping him from saying yes to Alastair, from all his guilt over the torture. I can see it in his eyes sporadically, the haunted, far off look, as his hands go into his back pockets, stopping himself from reaching our and hurting anyone else.

"Hey, Cas," Dean muttered, turning slightly towards me in his stupor. "Why were you the one to pull me from the pit? Why not Zachariah or Uriel or some other winged dick?"

I steepled my fingers, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. "I volunteered."

"Why?"

"I was already... curious about the garrison's motivations. I wanted to be on the "inside track", both with them and you, so I could best help if anything went wrong."

He nodded, and if I didn't know better, I would have sworn he looked a little hurt.

"So." He coughed a little, in that self-conscious way he does when trying to communicate emotion. "So, if you hadn't, uh, if it hadn't been for that... you wouldn't have been on our side?"

I ran his words through my mind. "Dean, that doesn't make much sense."

"Shut up." He rolled over so his back was towards me, but I knew his eyes were still open. I waited for him to find a more eloquent way to phrase his question.

After a few minutes with no response, I said, "I think I understand what you're trying to ask. If the circumstances were different, would I still be with you?"

Dean made a vaguely affirming noise. I pondered the question for a moment before responding. "I don't think so. But I'm very glad I am."

"Even with the Goddamn apocalypse?" he said, very quietly, almost unintelligible.

"Yes. Even with the apocalypse."

I could practically hear him smiling.

I think about this as I watch him in the shower.

I can't see his unclothed body; I stand outside of the shower curtain, which is translucent enough for me to see his outline. I still have the ability to conceal myself from human eyes.

I've been watching him for twenty-one days now. Sitting in the back of the Impala, following him around on cases, "ganking" demons when he can't see and transporting the bodies to the middle of the Pacific ocean, all while trying to figure out what to say to him.

Does he know I kissed him? How can I tell?

Leaving like that was foolish, I know that now. I should have simply concealed myself, but I ran, like a child. I was treading uncertain water so I got out.

Although, knowing Dean, he probably would have known that I was still there. I see him turn around sometimes in the Impala, with the feeling someone's in the backseat. He angles his body slightly towards me, as If I were standing next to him. Kissing him was nice. Very enjoyable. My whole heart is crying out, seeking him, so I can do it again.

I overhear Dean refusing to talk to Sam about his feelings, over and over and over again. Usually he gives in after a few attempts, but not this time.

Maybe there's something he doesn't want to tell Sam (like I kissed him? like he hated it? like he liked it? like I love him? like he loves me?). This would be a plausible deduction, if it weren't completely biased by emotion. Now I see why angels aren't meant to have much of them. They're... irreplaceable. Seeing as I come from Heaven, the land of endless plenty, this is a hard concept to process.

Dean turns the shower off. I avert my eyes as he steps out and wraps a towel around his middle. He begins to move towards the door, but stops. His chest is 23.1 inches from mine. He is looking at me. I want to touch him. I don't touch him. I run my hands through my hair, feeling the slight dampness due to the rising steam from the shower. I imagine running a hand through Dean's hair, over his body –

I stop myself. I cannot, I cannot.

"Cas?" he says, tentative. My breath catches. But no, it's nothing. He's just feeling my presence because of the remains of my Grace inside him.

"Cas, I know you're there. I can see your outline in the steam." He looks annoyed. I show myself; I have no other choice.

"Hello, Dean," I mumble, looking at my feet.

"Cas, what the Hell are you watching me in the shower for?" he practically yells, face and neck flushing slightly pink.

"I saw nothing... inappropriate. I promise." Dean rolls his eyes at me.

"Let me get dressed before we talk." He looks me in the eye, cautious and guarded. I stare back at him. He sighs something like okay and moves into the bedroom. I stay where I am until I hear him call, "Alright. Come on."

I am beside him. He jumps away. "Goddamnit. How many times... give me some warning, okay?"

"My apologies."

He sits on the bed. I sit opposite on Sam's. Neither of us speak or look at each other until I ask, "Where's Sam?"

"Getting ingredients from Garth." He sounds a little rueful.

"Dean, I can explain why –"

"No, no. It... it's okay. Checking up on me and all that. My ethereal Yoda. Great."

I nod, although I don't understand, because I don't want to anger him further.

"Why are you angry?" I ask him. I regret it almost immediately. I don't think I want to know, really.

But he only sighs. "I freaking fell asleep on you, Cas! Like a tenth grader with her first beer bong!" He runs his hands over his face. "I'm so damn vulnerable around you, it's ridiculous." He swallows heavily. "It just stresses me out a bit, alright? It's okay, it just... stresses me out."

He appears so troubled. I want to help. "Dean, when I laid a hand on you in Hell, it created a bond –"

"I'd worked out that much, thanks." He glares at me. I dislike that, though it does favours to the angles of his face. I don't think he remembers the kiss. This is both relieving and heartbreaking.

"You don't need to be afraid, Dean," I tell him softly, forcing him to look me in the eye. "I'm not going to hurt you anymore." He laughs bitterly in response, so I continue. "I mean it. No more. I –"

I manage to stop myself.

"I need you." That should cover what I can't say.

He looks down again. "Not now. Not..." Dean lets out a sigh so deep, so world-weary, that it sends chills down my spine. I often forget that I have only known him for a small portion of his life, and that I myself am only a small portion of his life. He is an everything, expanding out in every direction, his branches latching onto mine, extending them, extending me.

"I need to meet Sam. You should go."

I frown deeply. "Dean, I don't mean to further your discomfort. I am only –"

"Yeah, yeah, got it." He stands and begins digging for what I presume is his FBI suit. "Thanks for dropping in." When he turns back around, I'm gone. I see him stop his search, sit on the bed, and drop his head into his hands. I long to touch him, if only innocently, but I can't. If Dean has taught me anything it's that just because something is within arm's length, doesn't mean it's within arm's reach.

Dean is, once again, in over his head. I don't think he likes it. But for me, it's new, exciting, and only the beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

> _Take my hand_
> 
> _And lead me to salvation_
> 
> _Take my love_
> 
> _For love is everlasting_
> 
> _And remember_
> 
> _The truth that once was spoken:_
> 
> _To love another person is to see the face of God._
> 
> _\- Les Miserables, Finale_  
> 

That night, I visit his dreams.

I shouldn't. It's an invasion of his privacy. He'll be angry with me. But I need to know about the drawings.

I look around me. I'm in the woods. It's silent, apart from the steady soundtrack of birds and bees. Only trees surround me. This usually happens: I find myself a while from him, and no matter which direction I walk in, I always end up finding him.

Kind of like reality.

I start walking forwards. It's amazing how detailed Dean's dreams are, with the sky exactly like it was when he first kissed Gina DiAngelo in fourth grade, and the air the perfect blend of crisp and sweet, like when he played baseball with Bobby in the park. My feet crunch on autumn leaves, which is rather incongruous, seeing as it's summer everywhere else, but normal rules don't apply in this world. What Dean wants, Dean gets. I hope that's why I felt the need to be here.

After about seven minutes and nine seconds of walking, I come across a cabin. It's panelled in wood, with hidden defences such as CCTV and sensors under the patio, but the inside looks soft and comfortable, if a little rundown. I move myself inside, avoiding the surveillance. I am in the living room, which happens to be covered with pictures of Dean's family. I look at all of them, seeing Sam with Jess, Lisa with Ben, Ellen with Jo, Bobby with alcohol... and me. I see myself everywhere. In the background of his parents' wedding, on holiday with him and Sam, even standing with my arm around the Mona Lisa in a crude poster he has. This is where he knows my old vessels from. His dreams.

The room is painted pale blue, the same colour as his bedroom in Bobby's house. There is a border of badly drawn ducks with angel wings along the top of the walls. I laugh a little to myself internally. Is that how he sees me?

Apparently not, as I cross the room to see a photograph, low down on the bookshelf, as if hidden slightly. It is of Dean and myself, standing in a field. Dean holds out the camera as we... as we kiss.

I hear a gun cock behind me. "Dean," I say. "It's me."

"I know it's you, Cas. I just don't know _which_ you."

I turn around slowly to face him. He has a Winchester pointed at my head, which I find rather egotistical. But it's his dream. Maybe here he actually likes himself.

"It's the real me. I'm a visitor." I raise my eyebrows a little.

He narrows his eyes and shifts around on his feet. "You're not... gonna hurt me?"

"I would never willingly hurt you, Dean." I hold my hands out to him, and he lowers the gun. "Why would you think that? What's going on?"

"Nothin'. Nothing." He moves a little towards me, unconsciously. "What are you doing here?"

I feel a little heat creep up my face. "I wanted to... see you. I thought that if I came in your dream, you couldn't, you know, hit me."

"It's kind of personal here, Cas. You know I don't like you being here. There's crap here even _I_ don't know about." His eyes are firmly on mine, trying so hard not to look at the picture he knows is there.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

He sighs. "Damnit. Fine." Walking up to the bar in the corner, he pours two whiskies and hands one to me. I think he just wants something to do with his hands.

We drink in silence until both our glasses are empty. Dean takes mine from me, refills them both, and hands mine back. This repeats.

Eventually he can meet my gaze, which has never left his face. "What, Cas?" he cries. "What do you want from me?"

"I don't understand –"

"No. I don't either." He rubs a hand on the back of his neck. It is then that I notice his shirt. It's a dress shirt, button-up, plain, and not plaid. He's also wearing plain black trousers that look to be high quality. It's then that I understand the concept behind his dream. It is not made up of simply one goal, but many little ones, merged together to create an unrealistic picture. How can Dean be living in the woods when he knows what can be in them?

The changes are due to what others want. For example, the Jess that is with Sam is the same age as him, since she never perished at Azazel's hand. Jo was always complaining about Dean's clothes, and now he's dressed impeccably. And, well, I've always wanted to live in a cabin in the woods.

I want to know what this all means, why I am included so heavily in his dreams. I'm afraid that I will jump to false conclusions.

"Dean," I say.

He waits patiently for me to say something else. But I seem to have lost my train of thought.

Castiel, this is Dean. You can talk to Dean. But it seems that I can't. All of a sudden, my legs are shaking slightly, my breathing sped up. I am eliciting the symptoms of love again. It's beginning to annoy me; love is inconvenient.

My hands start shaking, too, and I have to set down my glass on the side. Dean has noticed and walks a few paces towards me. "Cas, what the..."

Oh.

My breathing stops. 2.45 inches between our bodies. 7.94435 inches between our lips. Dean is looking right at me, his eyes such a bright green that I wonder if they've changed the colour of mine by now. I cannot disappear this time. I cannot even move.

The light coming through the thin curtains illuminates all the tiny scars on Dean's face, all the bookmarks, all the baggage. I imagine tracing my hand over them, feeling the soft curves under my trembling fingers, and Dean's hand coming up to hold mine, hold me closer, hold me –

Dean looks me up and down. "Cas, buddy. We need to get you some more alcohol." He chuckles and strides over to the bar, picking up an entire bottle of wine and holding it out to me.

I feel as if I will vomit. He must be mine, only mine. This planet is beautiful and erratic and polluted, and I thought I could never love anything more than I love everything. But Dean has always been one to disobey the order.

And to look at him and feel as if... as if I am nothing to him? It's painful. It hurts. I want him but I cannot have him. This is driving me insane.

Everything I see reminds me of everything Dean and I could be together. Everything I do screams out _if only, if only,_ desperate, forever _if only_ s.

I blink, and take that moment to rearrange my face into one of mild worry, void of most emotions. Dean, Dean, Dean. I remove his mark from my features.

Time resumes as I take the bottle from his hand and drink every last drop. Wine is my favourite type of alcohol. I assume Dean knows this. My dream self probably told him. He doesn't bother telling me to slow down – he knows by now that it takes an entire liquor store to inebriate me.

I place the bottle next to my glass on the side. There are no more distractions left. We need to talk.

Dean sighs. "Alright, Cas, I'm sorry that I've been a little short with you lately. It's just, I'm having a hard time coming to terms with..." He pinches the bridge of his nose, fingers splaying out to rub his eyes. "With having these kinds of feelings for a _guy_."

My head tips slightly to the side. Dean smirks.

"Dean," I say, "you shouldn't be having these feelings towards anyone else. This kind of bond can only be formed when the Grace from an angel is shared with a human."

"No, no, I'm talking about –" He stops. I see something occur to him. His face falls. "Is that all it is to you?"

"I don't understand, Dean –"

"Forget it, Cas."

I reach out to grip his arm, carefully avoiding the handprint I left. This is no time for forced emotion. "I am not trying to hurt you. I'm just not good at phrasing emotions."

But Dean was already hesitant about the situation; I see his bravado slowly fade from his eyes as he backs away from my touch, hands coming up as his defence. He's about to ask me to leave.

What can I do? How do I make him stay? Will I beg? I think I would. I shouldn't, I wouldn't beg, but I would, I must. I begin to panic as he gets further and further away from me, and my fingers are slipping off his arm –

"Dean, stop," I shout. He freezes.

"I... thank you." I ready myself. I no longer attempt to hold myself back. For who am I without Dean? What would I possibly become after having known him? "When you are not around, everything seems very wrong. It seems that without you, I am simply one half of a reason to live –"

I am cut off as Dean strides forwards, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me.

My eyes close. My heart stops.

I cannot, I cannot. I am nothing, I am small, he is large, he is everything, he is an everything.

My arms wrap around his waist and I pull myself towards him, as close as possible, as much contact as possible. Dean's mouth is crushing down on mine, urgent, holding back a little. This isn't my first kiss, so I have a vague idea of what to do; I begin to lightly move my lips against his, which he responds to in earnest. I collapse into myself like a dying star, where all light and sound and life around me is eradicated and invisible and unnecessary except for him, only him, himself and everything inside.

I am so old, I have lived for so long, and I remember all of it, and I am certain that, so far, this is the best moment. If only Lucifer had realised that _this_ is why God loves humans more - because they can be unpredictable, surprising, and teach love as if it's second nature - then I would have a lot fewer problems.

Too soon, he pulls away, stepping backwards, dropping his hands form my face. His eyes are huge and beautiful as he stares at me. I stand there, prey of his gaze, victim of his silence.

"Cas?" he whispers after a few moments.

"Yes?" I respond, unsure of what he wants from me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." He trails off. He knows he doesn't mean it, and he can tell I know too. "Will I remember this?"

I had forgotten that we are in his dreams. Tears jump from my eyes as I consider the possibility that he will not remember.

"That depends," I say, keeping my voice even as I hide my emotion by looking down, "on whether you want to."

Dean attempts to hold a hand out to me, but ends up just dropping it. His eyes look afraid. He is afraid of me.

"I am the one who is sorry, Dean," I say, only slightly louder than a whisper. "I'll come if you call."

And I leave him there, alone. Because he is safest that way.


	4. Chapter 4

> _If I could write the beauty of your eyes,_
> 
> _And in fresh numbers all your graces,_
> 
> _The age to come would say, 'This poet lies,_
> 
> _Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'_
> 
> _\- Shakespeare, Sonnet XVII_

  
I went to Las Vegas last week. I got drunk. Very, very drunk, and I'm not really sure what else happened. All I know is I woke up next to a naked woman and I feel very guilty. The days are cold, I am turning blue.

Dean has not called me. It's been six weeks. This means one of two things: either he doesn't remember, or he does and regrets it. Whatever he's feeling, it's not in my favour.

I miss the days when I knew my purpose exactly, and I knew I could do it. If I needed help it was given to me immediately. I was never uncertain, never doubted anything. I was never alone, and always did what I was designed to do. But I was never designed to love, and in some ways, it scares me.

But it's time to put my past behind me and simply devote myself to loving (and avoiding) Dean until I am dead. My love for him will survive until the end of my time, and my time will survive until the end of his.

I let my search consume me, I give in to my thoughts. I am hollow. Oh, how I wish I were hollow.

On the day that Dean finally does call me, I am sitting alone by a small river in Africa. I am surrounded by healthy children. Every few minutes one of them runs up to me and thanks me for blessing him, and every time they do I feel a little closer to redemption, a little closer to God. A child hands me a small stone in the shape of an anatomically incorrect heart.

I hear Dean's voice in my head.

 _"Cas,"_ he says. _"Cas, come on. It's... come on, man. Don't make me beg here."_

I wait for a few minutes. I try and work out what I want to say, and what I should keep from saying.

 _"Goddamnit,"_ Dean continues, _"Cas, this is pretty freakin' hard for me too."_

I slip the stone into my left inside pocket and try not to think about metaphors. I take a deep breath and look out across the river. The sun shines brightly, making the river glow. The children all look so happy with their beautiful crops and mended organs. If only it were that simple to make Dean happy. Brace yourself, Castiel.

I am with Dean. He's in a shabby hotel room in South Carolina. He is wearing a green plaid shirt, a grey t-shirt, jeans, and brown boots. His hair is as usual. He is as usual. I am in love with his usual.

I watch him for a few moments, hidden to him. His hands are still in prayer, though he knows this is unnecessary. He is looking up at the ceiling, his face despaired. _"Please, Cas,"_ he says. _"I'm sorry."_

"There is nothing to be sorry for, Dean," I say as I show myself.

His eyes widen as he sees me, and he composes his features, stunts his pain. "I just meant... cos it's been so long."

I look around the room. "Oh. Well, I've been busy too. It's alright."

He sees through my facade of nonchalance and simply nods in return. But to be honest, I never thought he would call at all. I assume from watching him that it is all too easy to forget that which you do not wish to remember.

Dean, Dean, Dean.

He tries to match my gaze, and I let him. In this light, his eyes appear darker, more like the sea than the grass. I think about how this matches his mood at the current situation: uncertain, consuming, possibly dangerous.

Dean drops his eyes. He shifts a little on his feet until he is suitably defensive.

"I remember."

This cannot make me happy because he does not sound happy.

"Dean," I say, reaching out to him. He allows me to place my hand on his shoulder. "Dean."

I really have nothing else to say.

"Dean."

"Stop it."

He is uncertain. I yearn to read his thoughts. The pain at the back of my mind, in which I store everything I wish to say and do to him, is tearing me apart. I would be clawing desperately at my head if Dean weren't here.

"Cas, I remember you." He is close to tears. His voice is shaking. "Nothing else, only you." He means within the context of the dream, of course. Of course. "To be honest... it scares me, Cas."

"I don't understand why."

"Everyone I love _dies_ , Cas. Everyone." He begins to cry. "Sam, Bobby, Dad, Jo, Ellen, even _you_ a couple times. And I don't want to put you in harm's way anymore than I already am. And I don't want to go through the pain of losing you again. _Ever_ again."

"Dean, your recognition of my love for you doesn't mean I'm any more likely to die. It just means I'd be happier in my last moments if I were to."

He doesn't look very surprised at the use of the word "love". Then I realise he used it too, just a moment ago.

He loves me.

He loves me.

Father, forgive me, I am so very in love with Dean.

Of course he doesn't want to love me in return. Of course he's afraid. He is allowed to be selfish every once in a decade; I cannot imagine all of the pain and loss inside of him already. If he were to let himself love me completely, he would have to live with the threat of losing me. No, that's not right.

He cannot let himself love me completely whilst living with the threat of losing me.

I drop my hand from his shoulder. At our closest point, we are 13 inches apart. Dean is still crying silently.

"Dean, I need you."

"Stop it. Stop saying that."

I cannot help it. I take half of a step forward, lift my left arm and then my right, put both of my hands on his shoulders, and gently pull him towards me. His head rests on my shoulder, in the crook of my neck, as I wrap my arms around him. His hands twitch unsteadily for a moment before coming to rest lightly on my waist.

"For God's sake," he sighs, tightening his grip on me a fraction, pulling me in only slightly. I simply hold him tighter because he doesn't want to admit that he wants me to, and I don't stop because when it comes down to it, all Dean needs is someone to love him consumingly, at all times, at all costs.

I think I finally understand him, how he wishes with all of his soul to simply stop feeling, to be hollow and emotionless, because tragedies keep happening to him, and it keeps hurting, and he might be okay, but he's never fine. He wants to reach out to others, but denies himself, hoping that if he is alone for long enough, he might grow used to it.

"There is nothing you could do," I tell him, "that would make me stop being in love with all of you." I feel him press his face further into my neck. I feel the wetness of his eyes. I think he's trying to wipe them on me. "Dean –"

But he holds me properly now, arms around my back, every part of us connected. I can feel his heartbeat, slow and strong and steady. I laugh a little and return the embrace with matching passion, a selfish grin spreading across my face.

I feel Dean take a deep breath, his chest pressing against mine. Then he says that he loves me without using words, when he leans back a little and presses his lips against mine, zero inches apart, and I am no longer falling, I am steady, I am constant, I could fly, I could fly but I don't want to, I want to stay here forever, but I can do both at once, as long as he comes with me.

It's much more real than last time, because it is real. It is honest and raw and so vivid and I can feel it being branded into my brain even as it is happening. My arms are around Dean and his hands return to my waist. One of them comes up and threads through my hair, tangling in it, then smoothes it down so gently that it brings me close to tears. I can't think, but I can, but I'm not sure about anything anymore, but I can feel the certainty of Dean against me, but I don't think that love is the right word because losing him would be like losing a limb or my memory because he is my everything, but I don't know but it doesn't matter because his arms are around me and his mouth is on mine and he is my drug, my slow and seeping poison, but I cannot even see into the future when he will destroy me because everything is right now and I am nothing and he is everything and we are everything and all that exists is the points where our bodies connect and I cannot, I cannot, Dean, Dean, Dean.

It is quieter than I had expected, with no erotic moans or shouted names. We simply stand and love and everything else just falls into place.

* * *

"Dean?" I whisper.

"Yeah."

"Are you still afraid?"

He chuckles softly, the air too still for anything but gentle conversation. "No."

"What changed your mind?" I ask, smiling as I imagine what he might answer. I confuse my fingers with his as we lie patiently on the bed. Sam is back and asleep. I hid myself from him as Dean suggested he get an early night, and Sam agreed.

"Would it be too tacky if I said you?" He turns his head to watch me, close enough that I can see his is looking into my left eye.

"But I was here before. Can you be more specific?"

He kisses me lightly, still nervous. I feel a small chill run through him, and subsequently me. "There."

"Tacky," I guess. It seems to be correct, as he nods and mockingly apologises.

I am happy.

Am I happy?

Dean lets out a small, content hum under his breath as he turns into me, letting his head rest next to mine and his arm drape over my body. His eyes close. I bury my face in his hair, smelling his scent of dirt and sweat and (old) solitude.

Yes. I am happy.

"I am in love with you, Dean Winchester," I whisper, too quiet for human ears.

He snorts. "Knew it," he answers, one foot in a dream.

I shove him a little. "Stop arguing."

"Bite me, Cas."

* * *

We continue like that for a while. He goes hunting with Sam, bickers and fights and represses, until night comes, and Sam falls asleep, and I appear, and he smiles every time.

I don't mind that he doesn't want Sam to know. I understand that it is hard to "come out". But he says to me, "It's not men. It's just you."

One night, Dean calls me, and Sam is still there. He doesn't even seem surprised to see me. He doesn't ask me any questions. He simply says, "Hey, Cas," and catches me up on the case. Dean comes up next to me and takes my hand while Sam is talking; Sam doesn't even blink. I've always respected their relationship. It truly is astonishing what they will do for each other.

Sam then bids us goodnight and leaves. Dean turns to me and tells me that Sam booked a separate room so we could be alone. He does that every night from then on.

As we again lie on the bed (it's become a sort of tradition), I turn into Dean and he tells me he loves me. It's the first time he's properly said it, not just "the people I love" or "I can't tell him about our love"; a real, proper "I love you."

"Dean," I say, and he hits me. "Dean, I don't believe love really covers it anymore."

He nods. "Fair point." And I smile because he is my everything.

 _My_ everything. Mine.


End file.
